my own personal project is here...

Leah Selene Lawrence

October 26th, 2009

5:01 PM

6 lbs 14 oz

19 1/2 in

My own personal project... 8 1/2 months in the making.

Autumn days are here again!

In autumn when the trees are brown The little leaves come tumbling down They do not make the slightest sound But lie so quietly on the ground Until the wind comes puffing by And blows them off towards the sky.
The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.
Fall poem by John Muir

Autumm Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio - James Wright

In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.

All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.

Therefore,
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.

I first read this poem in my Intro to English class during my freshman year at MSU and I instantly felt a connection to it. My high school has a long tradition of winning the state finals in Division 8 (200ish students in the whole high school) and I have always said that women there are treated like second class citizens. Almost every line describes Mendon. Anyway, I have loved it since and I just realized there are only 4 more days left in October so I should put it up here for the sake of timeliness :)

i hide myself within my flower by Emily Dickenson pome post

I HIDE myself within my flower,

That wearing on your breast,

You, unsuspecting, wear me too—

And angels know the rest.


I hide myself within my flower,

That, fading from your vase,

You, unsuspecting, feel for me

Almost a loneliness.

Hockey

I have my first two game of the 09-2010 season this friday and saturday.

The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

This poem is very long, so I could not share it in its entirety. I choose four of my favorite stanzas (5, 8, 13, and 15) from this poem to use for this project. They are in order, but they are not consecutive. To see the full poem go to http://charon.sfsu.edu/TENNYSON/TENNLADY.html

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me,"
cried The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Website

My website is online. The current URL is only temporary and I've changed the site a bit due to some feedback I've gotten. Here it is: http://palerstrilogy.x10hosting.com/index.html Enjoy.

Packing

I was inspired today. I saw a trailer for a movie called Up In The Air, and it made me think. So here is a poem I came up with, it's a little rough but let me know what you think. Thoughts, comments, concerns, all these things are open topics.

Packing by Kelly Brewer

I ask myself ‘How much does my life weigh?”
Is it a mere ounce or maybe a ton or two
I wonder what my life will amount to in the end
Will my life only be the things that lie on my shelves?
The books I read, my music, my favorite movie

My job, my clothes, maybe the apartment I move into
Only the objects that I seem to own
But then I realize, I cannot own anything
Ownership is an idea that we cling to
I realize that I fear not death itself
But I fear I will leave nothing behind
My imprint on this earth will not last, I know this
My thoughts, my ideas, my emotions and worries
Are just air, they linger but no one can touch them
I ask myself, if I could pack everything into a bag
What would I pack? Where would I start?
What do I pack first?
I start with the small things that I supposedly ‘own’
A CD, A film, A camera. None of these things are important
But I believe they are, because that’s what I’m told.
I realize now that in my bag I don’t need these things
So what do I pack?
I place all my troubles and my so called demons
These things are heavy and they are deep
Can you imagine weighing these things?
How much does your baggage weigh?
I place people in this bag, those that I love
I cannot own people, I cannot weigh friendships
I cannot weigh relationships or love
If you could place anything into a bag,
What would you bring? What is important?
I move slowly through life, I fear that death with come fast
When I go, what will I have packed?

------------

"Make no mistake your relationships are the heaviest components in your life. All those negotiations and arguments and secrets, the compromises. The slower we move the faster we die. Make no mistake, moving is living. Some animals were meant to carry each other to live symbiotically over a lifetime. Star crossed lovers, monogamous swans. We are not swans. We are sharks."
- Up In The Air

Zombie by Nichole Hoehn

Zombie
The sorrow dies And the living cry The dead walks beneath our feet Under ground The non-breathing live upon us Their pulses do not beat They are the nightmares of our dreams They are the ones Who make our skin crawl But they are only our future Disgusting beasts Dead may they be They are one of a kind Because without them What story would be left behind Nichole Hoehn

Get healthy and enjoy your time off!

Read something inspiring.
Energize your spirit.
Be healthy.

See you Monday.

Poem About Hope

What hope means
-Vineet Bansal

Hope is bright shining light which keeps darkness at the bay
Hope is gentle cold breeze on a hot summer day
Hope is to remain positive when going gets tough
hope is seeking more when others think u had enough

What hope means

Hope is dreaming of tommorow
Hope is simmering under sorrow
Hope is sparkles when tears in our eyes
Hope is a beautiful thing & beutiful things never dies

What hope means

Hope is as light as a feather
Hope keeps all of us together
Hope is ubiquitous and free of costhope is the last thing ever lost.....

To a Certain Cantatrice

To a Certain Cantatrice by Walt Whitman

Here, take this gift,
I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or general,
One who should serve the good old cause, the great idea, the progress and freedom of the race,
Some brave confronter of despots, some daring rebel;
But I see that what I was reserving belongs to you just as much as to any.

A Silly Poem!

I Knew a Guy

I knew a guy
who knew a guy
who stuck his finger
in his eye.
Oh me, oh my!
That silly guy!
He stuck his finger
in his eye!
I asked him, "Why,
oh tell me why
you stuck your finger
in your eye."
But all that guy
would do was cry
and cry and cry
and cry and cry.
So stick your finger
in a pie
or in the sky
or on your tie
or in a toasted
ham on rye
or on a purple
butterfly,
but don't be like
that silly guy
who stuck his finger
in his eye
or you will cry
and cry and cry
and then you might
fall down and die.
Goodbye.
--Kenn Nesbitt

My poem thing

I wrote a poem... yay...

Poetry

im not a poet.
and i really know it.
ive been told to find a poem.
but they apparently roam.
they are nowhere i can find.
the internet must not be kind.
so now i will write.
or maybe fly a kite.
either way it doesnt matter.
ill never match the wittiness of the mad hatter.
maybe my dog will do a trick.
or find me and my arm want to lick.
oh look, i finally wrote a poem.
hopefully mine will not roam.

Christmas Herald

Christmas Herald by Paul Curtis

The Christmas lights are up
The shops play Christmas tunes
The Santas are out in force
In their red and white platoons
Christmas goodies are on display
The best selections ever seen
Which sends the message out
That it’s nearly Halloween

Sel P. Trions

Well, for those of you who read my poem and didn't understand it, I took the time to translate it for you. No need to thank me, I know none of you will anyway...

Sel P. Trions Sel P. Trions

by Matt Roede By Matt Roede

whaT iS thiS poeM abouT, yoU maY asK, What is this poem about, you may ask,
?pudessemllasdrowehterayhW Why are the words all messed up?
JuStWhEnyOuThInKThAtYoUCrAcKeDtHecOdE, Just when you think that you cracked the code,
ti hcnaesg, adn won 'eyruo rllaye a lfpo. It changes, and now you're really a flop

point if you've puzzle to the solved this up, If you've solved the puzzle up to the this point,

you'll nothing notice says this poem. You'll notice this poem says nothing.
Itz fun-E that U wrkd s-o Hrd, Its funny that you worked so hard,
& al lit sdon eisw ast eyo ureti me. :) And all its done is waste your time :)

..SP :) elti tehtn isret tele hteg rraeR P.S. :) Rearrange the letters in the title

If you do, it spells "Pointless."

Thank you for reading!

Jellyfish Stew by Jack Prelutsky

Jellyfish stew,I’m loony for you,I dearly adore you,
you’re creepy to seerevolting to chew,you slide down insidewith hullabaloo.
You’re soggy, you’re smelly,you taste like shampoo,you bog down my belly with oodles of goo,yet I would glue noodlesand prunes to my shoe,for one oozy spoonful of jellyfish stew.

Poem for the artists of Creative Writing, by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Don't let that horse
        eat that violin
cried Chagall's mother

             But he
        kept right on

    painting

And became famous

And kept on painting
                  The Horse With Violin In Mouth
And when he finally finished it
he jumped up upon the horse
                 and rode away
        waving the violin

And then with a low bow gave it
to the first naked nude he ran across

And there were no strings
                 attached 

(From his book of poetry titled Coney Island of The Mind)

{From Paige}

Google search "chagall Horse".

There's truly a painting with a nude and a horse with a violin in it's mouth

:D Wonderful. I love this poem.

A Tree With A Bitter Seed: Inside Afghanistan

A tree with a bitter seed
Fed with butter and sugar
Will still bear a bitter fruit.
From it, you will taste no sweetness.

My favorite poem

There once a man from Peru
Who dreamt of eating his shoe
He woke with a fright
in the middle of the night
An found that his dream had come true.

TWLOHA

I know this isn't a poem but I still love it. This is the story that began To Write Love On Her Arms, the organization I'm a part of.



Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."

I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.

Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.

She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "F---UP" large across her left forearm.

The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.

She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.

I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes

Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.

She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.

On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.

Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.

After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.

She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.

As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."

I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.

We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.

We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.

I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember.

Poem, oh a lovely Poem!

Okey-Dokey, I have a poem!

We're glad you joined our family,
Yet some things make us wonder;
How can a little package like you
Have a voice that's loud as thunder?


You are so small and oh so cute,
But you are never very shy,
For whenever you want something,
You just open your mouth and cry.


First you moved on hands and knees,
Then you were up on your feet.
We're chasing you all around the house;
We're tired; we need a retreat!


Some food is on the table;
Some food is on the floor;
Seems the only place food didn't go,
Is in the baby we adore.


Diapers here and diapers there,
Stinky... smelly... Whew!
Diapers would have done us in,
If we didn't love you as we do.


We're glad you joined our family,
You're a unique and wonderful treasure.
So, despite the work of raising you,
Being your parents is a total pleasure!

This poem is called "The Joy of Raising a Baby" By Morgan Zane. This is just an appropriate poem for what is happening in my family

'MEET ME IN THE STARIWELL'

'MEET ME IN THE STAIRWELL'
By: Unknown
You say you will never forget where you were when
you heard the news On September 11, 2001.
Neither will I.

I was on the 110th floor in a smoke filled room
with a man who called his wife to say 'Good-Bye.' I
held his fingers steady as he dialed. I gave him the
peace to say, 'Honey, I am not going to make it, but it
is OK...I am ready to go.'

I was with his wife when he called as she fed
breakfast to their children. I held her up as she
tried to understand his words and as she realized
he wasn't coming home that night.

I was in the stairwell of the 23rd floor when a
woman cried out to Me for help. 'I have been
knocking on the door of your heart for 50 years!' I said.
'Of course I will show you the way home - only
believe in Me now.'

I was at the base of the building with the Priest
ministering to the injured and devastated souls.
I took him home to tend to his Flock in Heaven. He
heard my voice and answered.

I was on all four of those planes, in every seat,
with every prayer. I was with the crew as they
were overtaken. I was in the very hearts of the
believers there, comforting and assuring them that their
faith has saved them.

I was in Texas, Virginia, California, Michigan, Afghanistan.
I was standing next to you when you heard the terrible news.
Did you sense Me?

I want you to know that I saw every face. I knew
every name - though not all know Me. Some met Me
for the first time on the 86th floor.

Some sought Me with their last breath.
Some couldn't hear Me calling to them through the
smoke and flames; 'Come to Me... this way... take
my hand.' Some chose, for the final time, to ignore Me.
But, I was there.

I did not place you in the Tower that day. You
may not know why, but I do. However, if you were
there in that explosive moment in time, would you have
reached for Me?

Sept. 11, 2001, was not the end of the journey
for you. But someday your journey will end. And I
will be there for you as well. Seek Me now while I may
be found. Then, at any moment, you know you are
'ready to go.'

I will be in the stairwell of your final moments.

~God~

Puck's Mischief

So here's a poem I whipped up today. Enjoy yourself!

Puck’s Mischief - Sarah Aman

So I was trotting through the wood today
Looking for a prank to play,
When I espied a traveling troupe
Of country bumpkins, fools to boot.

I thought to myself, “Now here’s a way,
To surely brighten up my day.
They’re awfully close to the fairy queen,
Close enough that they’ll be seen?”

And so I watched, with upmost glee
Hidden behind a nearby tree.
“I see they are putting on a play!
I’ll wait to see what they’ve to say.”

A stupid man, Bottom was he,
Had his cue to turn and flee.
And so, of course, I followed too,
Looking to cause much ado.

Before he came back to his crew,
I played a trick, and upon him sew
An ass’s head, and sent him out.
His friends surely did not hang about!

And just as I had planned in fact,
Titania awoke from her spelled nap
Just as Bottom, singing, passed.
And she fell in love with him, an ass!

Note: Sorry about the 'naughty word', but I figured ya'll are mature enough to handle it ;)

A Kind of Vilanelle ~ Joyce Sutphen

I will have been walking away:
no matter what direction I intended,
at that moment I will have been walking,

Away into the direction that you now say
I have always intended, no matter what my
intention was then, I will have been

Walking away, though it will not be clear
what it is that I was leaving or
even why, it seems you will say

That always, I was walking away,
intending a direction that was not towards
you, but moving away with every step,

Or, even when I pretended to be walking
towards you, only making the place
for my feet to go backwards,

Away, where I will have been walking
always away: intention and direction
unknown, but knowing you will always
say I will have been walking away.

The Creation by James Weldon Johnson posted by Regal.Rachel

The Creation by James Weldon Johnson

And God stepped out on space,
And he looked around and said:
I'm lonely--
I'll make me a world.

And far as the eye of God could see
Darkness covered everything,
Blacker than a hundred midnights
Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled,
And the light broke,
And the darkness rolled up on one side,
And the light stood shining on the other,
And God said: That's good!

Then God reached out and took the light in his hands,
And God rolled the light around in his hands
Until he made the sun;
And he set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.
And the light that was left from making the sun
God gathered it up in a shining ball
And flung it against the darkness,
Spangling the night with the moon and stars.
Then down between
The darkness and the light
He hurled the world;
And God said: That's good!

Then God himself stepped down--
And the sun was on his right hand,
And the moon was on his left;
The stars were clustered about his head,
And the earth was under his feet.
And God walked, and where he trod
His footsteps hollowed the valleys out
And bulged the mountains up.

Then he stopped and looked and saw
That the earth was hot and barren.
So God stepped over to the edge of the world
And he spat out the seven seas--
He batted his eyes, and the lightnings flashed--
He clapped his hands, and the thunders rolled--
And the waters above the earth came down,
The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted,
And the little red flowers blossomed,
The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,
And the oak spread out his arms,
The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,
And the rivers ran down to the sea;
And God smiled again,
And the rainbow appeared,
And curled itself around his shoulder.

Then God raised his arm and he waved his hand
Over the sea and over the land,
And he said: Bring forth! Bring forth!
And quicker than God could drop his hand,
Fishes and fowls
And beasts and birds
Swam the rivers and the seas,
Roamed the forests and the woods,
And split the air with their wings.
And God said: That's good!

Then God walked around,
And God looked around
On all that he had made.
He looked at his sun,
And he looked at his moon,
And he looked at his little stars;
He looked on his world
With all its living things,
And God said: I'm lonely still.

Then God sat down--
On the side of a hill where he could think;
By a deep, wide river he sat down;
With his head in his hands,
God thought and thought,
Till he thought: I'll make me a man!

Up from the bed of the river
God scooped the clay;
And by the bank of the river
He kneeled him down;
And there the great God Almighty
Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,
Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,
Who rounded the earth in the middle of his hand;
This great God,
Like a mammy bending over her baby,
Kneeled down in the dust
Toiling over a lump of clay
Till he shaped it in is his own image;

Then into it he blew the breath of life,
And man became a living soul.
Amen.Amen.

James Weldon Johnson

Who Knows?

How do I say
what is on my mind
when I know it's
from deep in my soul?

I'm worried the moment
may pass us by
and then you'll never know.

But if I open my mouth to speak
and the words come tumbling out,

Will you laugh and agree
or stare at me
never thinking so deep before?

How do I know
which is the right thing
for me to do?

I'll regret my choice
to say nothing at all,
so I'll just say to you:

I love you.
I need you.
I just wanted you to know:

I can't imagine
my life without you.
I never want you to go.

When I stare into
your beautiful eyes
All the world seems all right.

Without you in my life...
Who knows?

Written 6/15/09
By:Bethany M. Hart

Near Madness by James Freeman

A time when lights could not be shut off

even with their cords pulled from the wall

Harsh and bright and made of nameless stuff

The hidden facet of my every wish and fear

shining for friends and enemies alike to see

A time when every word spoken low and softly

rang amplified a thousand times and more

Shouted from rooftops and silent streets

My every thought a known thing, naked

No secret too submerged for common view

A time of weariness and wariness combined

Close to madness, yet not so well defined

Transparency of soul if soul I even have

Where's the madness to be seen through glass

A life better lived with uncurtained windows

Comfort to be had, a settlement of all disputes

where those for and those against can come

to see well lit, amplified, diaphanous displays

of every treasured love and art I hold

No longer covered and withheld but spent

Sel P. Trions
by Matt Roede

whaT iS thiS poeM abouT, yoU maY asK,
?pudessemllasdrowehterayhW
JuStWhEnyOuThInKThAtYoUCrAcKeDtHecOdE,
ti hcnaesg, adn won 'eyruo rllaye a lfpo.

point if you've puzzle to the solved this up,
you'll nothing notice says this poem.
Itz fun-E that U wrkd s-o Hrd,
& al lit sdon eisw ast eyo ureti me. :)

..SP :) elti tehtn isret tele hteg rraeR

The Absolute

No mind, no form, I only exist;
Now ceased all will and thought;
The final end of Nature's dance,
I am it whom I have sought.
A realm of Bliss bare, ultimate;
Beyond both knower and known
A rest immense I enjoy at last;
I face the One alone.
I have crossed the secret ways of life,
I have become the Goal.
The Truth immutable is revealed;
I am the way, the God-Soul.
My spirit aware of all the heights,
I am mute in the core of the Sun.
I barter nothing with time and deeds;
My cosmic play is done.

Sri Chinmoy

The Mirror - Spencer Castro

My life is now my delusion,
A world made of fantasies.
Happiness is no longer the illusion,
My life is my new disease.

No longer waiting to see what happens,
No more waiting on fate.
I will decide where it all ends,
I will show you all my hate.

You claim to be full of anger,
You spread nothing but lies.
Your time in my mind is in danger,
For you are whom I truly despise.

The look in you eyes is hard to handle,
It's almost something to be feared.
Is this the true or just another scandal?
Where is your face--just mine I see mirrored.

And here is my first post!

Lo and Behold! Look at the cuteness of my new little sister, Amelia Christine Rozeveld! This is the first picture up and I promise you it will not be the last! She is so adorable and I love her to death (even though she keeps me up at night with her screaming, but I still love her).

We have learned a lot about our new sister in the few days we have had her. She is a very strong baby. She also can be a very angry baby when her bottle isn't ready when she is. I have changed her diaper 3 times (mom changes her poopy diapers...I leave those alone)

Well, I will most definitely get more post on and more photos of Amelia on here ASAP!

Adios Peeps!

Boo! Radley that is

First Post! =]

I was in Beaver Island over the weekend and there was a tree that reminded me of To Kill A Mockingbird. It was filled with little nic-nacs and clay figures inside the cork of the tree. It was pretty awesome. Boo Radley must be sneaking around. Huzzah!

I'm sooo glad its friday!! TGIF

Rain

Although it's not April, I stumbled upon this poem on a friend's blog and found it apropos:

"April Rain Song" ~~ Langston Hughes

Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
the rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night -
And I love the rain.

New

I joined the blog :)